


Rejuvenation

by pan_ismyhomeboy



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Disapproving Justice is disapproving, F/M, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Past mention of Anders/Nathaniel, Sexual Frustration, Unresolved sexual tension that at some point resolves itself I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_ismyhomeboy/pseuds/pan_ismyhomeboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hawke is sexually frustrated, Anders' magic has fascinating side effects, and Isabela and Varric laugh at their friend's expense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the following prompt:
> 
> During the infamous three years Hawke visits her favourite healer to treat even the smallest injuries, because his healing turns her on. She tries not to reveal herself, but she can't help herself and comes loudly during one of the healing sessions. What happens next? ;)
> 
> would be great if Anders takes pleasure in healing her too and healing process is a sweet torture for both of them
> 
> edit 10/11/17: Someone pointed out that I made a joke in poor taste in the original version of this fic so I have edited it out. Thanks for catching it and letting me know!

It starts out innocently.

Well. Innocently enough, as far as Hawke’s concerned.

To her credit and in her defense, by the time she realizes what’s going on she’s completely gone, truly madly _deeply_ in unresolved sexual tension with this guy, Mr. Feathered-Pauldrons-Are-Totally-Cool Here-Read-My-Manifesto Ponytail Mage Man.

(And no, she doesn’t call him that to his face. She thinks it, shares the title with Varric over a pint, and absently rubs the arm that had, only that morning, been smashed in three places.)

She’s been healed before, of _course_ she’s been healed before. By Bethany, by the mages at Ostagar, of which both examples were hardly pleasurable at the time and are now painful in remembering. Healing… well, the lack of pain’s always a bonus if you can ignore the fact skin is re-knitting itself at an accelerated rate and bones that really should be shattered beyond repair manage to mold back together. It’s a strange and uneasy feeling, one that sets Hawke’s teeth on edge as most magic generally does. And not in a moral sense; it literally makes Hawke grimace if she stands too close to spellcasting. But with Anders…

There’s warmth and there’s _light_ , curling gentle tendrils around abused flesh, quickening her blood, stuttering her breath, shooting a jolt of adrenaline and fierce joy straight to her heart. (Among other places.) She feels renewed, like she can fly, like she can take on the world and destroy a legion of darkspawn and take on the fucking Arishok and _still_ make it home in time for dinner. (Among other things.) She leaves battle feeling victorious and incredibly, _stupendously_ horny.

It takes every ounce of willpower she has and a sizeable investment on tomorrow’s supply not to jump Anders right there and fuck him in the alleyway, in front of the Maker and everyone. 

\---

Sexuality… has not been Hawke’s forte. Adolescent years had not been kind to her or her brother’s freedom, scared as they were to attract any attention to their family, and their time in the army left precious few minutes for anything more elaborate than a quick roll in the hay with the nearest consenting, corporeal humanoid. Which often left Hawke more frustrated than before because… well. Because reasons. Reasons that still seem to exist whether she turns to men or to women, to friends or to strangers. Reasons that are embarrassing and more than a little depressing when she gets right down to it. Her own hand? Sure, no problem! Someone else’s appendage?

(“Don’t worry one bit, sweet thing,” Isabela had told her after more than an hour in bed. There had been four orgasms between the two of them. None of them had been Hawke’s. “You aren’t the first woman I’ve met with this problem.”

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Hawke had replied, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m _mortified_.”)

But Anders…

Maker, those two words are swiftly becoming her new catchphrase, supplanting the melancholy _if only_ and the aggravated _fuck this I need a pint_.

She brings to mind the warmth of the spell as it had lapped against her skin earlier that day, the surge of life and blood and lust straight to her cunt, as she slips a hand beneath the sheets and brings herself some measure of satisfaction.

\---

Just to test it out, she accidentally-on-purpose mishandles a dagger after a fight and incurs more damage herself than had an entire squad of Invisible Sisters. She curses and drops her weapon, blood welling up from her sliced palm.

And Anders is by her side, healing magic radiating from a single gesture that turns Hawke’s legs to jelly and her hand, briefly, into the most sensual spot in her entire body. She stifles her gasp and keeps her expression neutral as she faces him, but still he scrutinizes her as the spell fades.

“You should be more careful,” he says finally before turning to the others.

\---

“Let me stop you right there,” Varric says, holding up a finger, “and see if I have this straight.”

“It’s about the only thing that _is_ straight around here,” Isabela mutters not so softly, winking across the table at Hawke.

"Don't interrupt me when I'm lecturing, Rivaini.”

Isabela laughs and downs the rest of her ale and Varric turns the rest of his attention back to Hawke. “You did not just tell me you purposefully injured yourself in battle-”

“Accidentally on purpose,” Hawke mutters miserably into her fourth or sixth mug.

“- _purposefully_ injured yourself in battle-”

“And it was after the battle.”

“-just to see if Blondie’s magic would make your nethers happy-”

“I was conducting an experiment.”

“-and then you _tell us about it_ to gauge our approval.”

Hawke considers her now empty mug and again wonders when her drinking solution morphed into a drinking problem. “I only told you because you got me drunk.”

“In vino veritas, love,” Isabela says as she swipes Varric’s drink. 

Varric is too busy staring at Hawke to really notice. “You know, they’re right when they say the truth is stranger than fiction. There is no way in a million ages I would have ever come up with a plot twist like that.”

“I’m not a plot twist,” Hawke protests, though her protest comes out more like one of Anders’ mewling kittens. “I’m a miserable sword for hire with assholes for friends.”

“Same thing, in the end,” Isabela notes.

“Am I crazy?"

“I need legal counsel to answer that,” says Varric.

“It sounds,” Isabela interrupts, “like you need to get laid.”

“Oh, I’ll drink to that,” Varric says, then glares at the pirate. “Or I _would_. Go talk to Norah for me, will you?”

Isabela saunters off, pausing to ruffle Hawke’s hair on the way past. “Cheer up. You’re _still_ not the worst case I’ve ever encountered.”

When Varric and Hawke are alone at the table, the dwarf pinches the bridge of his nose and leans in a bit. “Besides the fact this is probably the most awkward thing I’ve ever talked about and is, in fact, paramount to walking in on someone I consider closer than family unpacking her wedding night fun box-" 

“Is that a dwarven thing?” Hawke muses drunkenly. “Instead of a dowry, does the happy couple get a box of pre-emptive marital aids?” She turns her bleary focus on Varric. “Have _you_ ever been married?” A longer pause and she says, "Am I  _really_ like family?"

“You're the sister I never had and am not entirely sure I want," he affirms grimly. "Are you _sure_ you want to get involved with Blondie?”

“You don’t like him,” Hawke says sullenly.

“I didn’t say that. I do, however, like _you_. And I like the fact you’re you and not an increasingly paranoid and unstable mage with an invisible roommate and a caravan’s worth of baggage.”

“You,” Hawke declares, “don’t want me to be happy.”

Varric puts both hands up. “You’re right, you’ve uncovered my endgame. Everything I’ve done for you at this point has been with your sexual frustration explicitly in mind.”

It’s then Isabela swoops back in with two drinks in either hand. “Don’t you listen to the mean old dwarf,” she cooes at Hawke, setting two mugs in front of the other woman and two in front of herself. When Varric gives her a pointed look, Isabela sighs and passes over one of her own mugs. “It’s just _sex_. Just ask him. The worst he can do is rant about injustice and talk about cats. And if he says no, then… you can still invite him along on your adventures.”

Isabela examines her nails while the other two look at her.

“For healing purposes.”

“Rivaini, that’s creepy.”

“And yet entirely effective.”

“Creepy yet effective,” Varric says with a sigh, lifting his ale in toast. “Closest thing we’ll ever have to a motto."

\--- 

Of course, that’s all easier said and drank than done. When Hawke’s head clears and she mulls over the conversation with Varric and Isabela, she comes to the following conclusions:

  1. Her life is a mess. (Obvious.)
  2. Isabela is right. (As always.)
  3. But Varric has a point. (See above note.)
  4. There is a mature, adult, responsible thing to do here. (Wait for it…)
  5. _But Anders_. (Dammit.)



When she wakes up the next morning sick to her stomach and with a pounding headache, she decides to take signs of divine will where she can get them and makes her way to Darktown.

\--- 

Anders knows. He has to know. There’s absolutely no way he doesn’t. He sizes her up when she arrives at his clinic and there’s a moment where Hawke’s afraid she’ll be called out, that her little ‘experiment’ was too obvious even for her. But his eyes soften as he asks, “Something I can help you with?" 

She pushes her shoulders back and grasps for the confidence she usually exudes with every breath. “Got anything for a hangover?” 

“Must be quite a hangover if you’re braving Darktown’s stench all by yourself.”

“It is _the worst_ hangover,” she assures him. “The Paragon of hangovers. They’ll write ballads about it and sing it in all the pubs.”

“The same pubs where you got the hangover to begin with.”

“Those’re the ones.”

A moment passes between them and Hawke finds herself feverishly praying _don’t make this awkward don’t make this awkward_. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, when Anders gestures to an empty seat in the corner. 

“Do you mind waiting? I’m a little busy but I’d be happy to see you as soon as I’m done with my other patients.”

“Don’t mind at all,” she says, equal parts relieved and terrified as she settles in to watch him work.

It occurs to Hawke that for all their companionship and adventuring, she never has properly observed Anders’ magic. If they’re not battling their way through yet another wave of the enemies du jour or slinging back another round of drinks (okay, watered-down drinks for Anders’ poor blessed sake) at the Hanged Man, they’re… not really around each other that often, especially now that Hawke has moved even further away from Darktown than Gamlen’s hovel and Anders keeps longer hours at his clinic than do most paid (and legal) physicians at their own. Not that she’s ever forgotten about his status as a mage -- as though _anybody_ could forget while he still had air to breathe -- but maybe, just maybe she’s started taking it for granted.

_And you’d still be doing that if things hadn’t changed_.

_Didn’t I throttle you off back when I started working for Meeran?_ she snips at her conscience.  

_You’re using him. You don’t even_ **_like_ ** _him. You wouldn’t have given him a second glance if--_

_You don’t know that!_

Hawke can feel her conscience judging her and can’t decide what’s worse: that fact that she’s having an argument with her conscience, or the fact that she’s losing. Badly.

_Okay, maybe I am_ , she concedes, the only outward change a slight slump to her shoulders. On the list of brilliant and inspired plans she’s had in her life, stealthily seeking out sexual gratification from a frie- acqua- apos- from Anders is… probably not on that list, if she’s honest with herself. Anders bends over to examine one of his patients and Hawke tilts her head to one side, then to the other, and thinks, _But I think I get at least a few points for this piece of evidence._  

_You’re not even here because you like him_ , her conscience replies, sullen as she had been with Varric the night before. But even her superego has to admit that under all those robes Anders seems to be a fine specimen of a man.

Hawke is doing her best to be patient and not fidget or otherwise show her anticipation. She should have expected that Anders’ definition of “a little busy” didn’t mesh with that of any sane human being’s; there are half a dozen people already inside the clinic with a small line where more unfortunates wait after a quick triage confirms none of them are actively dying. A small lantern hanging on a hook just outside the clinic door burns with the same blue light that swirls around Anders’ hands as he puts his healing skills to work. _The healer is in_. Idly Hawke fantasizes about snuffing out the lantern to keep more people from seeking help today, but even for her roguish nature that’s going too far.

Still. It doesn’t hurt to fantasize, does it? Doing away with the lantern, seeing off the last of the patients, Anders finally walking over with a seductive tone of voice and waggle of his hips that, in all honesty, probably fits better with Isabela, but a girl absolutely can dream. (Maker’s _ass_ she can’t even stop being hypercritical in her _imaginary_ sex life.) Banter and smirks exchanged, fingers sliding across her bare skin, all number of sexually-laced medical puns whispered between them as blue light flares again and warmth laps against her skin...

She finally settles on leaning her head back against the stone wall and closing her eyes but for a small crack so she can continue to watch the healer. Any casual glance her way would seem that the rogue is just another patient who had fallen asleep waiting for Anders’ attention. (Which isn’t _entirely_ inaccurate. Just partially so.) She is absolutely proud of herself for not reaching down and giving her hips something to push against, even if it would only be the press of her own hand. Hawke then reflects that if _this_ is all it takes to inspire pride, perhaps Varric and Isabela’s influence is rubbing off more than expected.

Anders leans over again and she groans internally. No more thoughts about rubbing, figurative or otherwise, or this wait might literally kill her.

When the clinic finally empties out and Anders goes to stick out his head to confirm the absence of any waiting patients, Hawke stretches out and luxuriates in the movement of stiff muscles. And then winces because her headache, while settled somewhat away from direct light and without movement, comes roaring back full force.

“That must be some hangover,” Anders says with a lopsided grin as he pulls the door closed behind him and walks toward Hawke. He checks the position of the shadows on the floor. “I would have expected your symptoms to lessen by now." 

“I haven’t even told you what they are, yet.”

“I’ve been watching,” is all he says, making Hawke straighten a bit in her seat. He squats a bit so they’re face to face, examining her bloodshot eyes. “Where does it hurt most?”

She briefly catalogs the aches and discomforts, silver tongue unusually leaden in her mouth. He watches her… not _dispassionately_ , not exactly, but she’s never seen this look on his face. Or rather, the only times he’s had this look she had been in enough pain on the battlefield and they in enough immediate danger that her thoughts hadn’t exactly been on facial expressions. Anders suddenly chuckles and, startled out of her reverie, she asks, “What?”

“Nothing. Only Justice is using you as a teaching example of why I’m not allowed to get drunk anymore.”

“I thought you and Justice were one.”

“We are. But that doesn’t mean he’s not still an ass." 

Hawke smiles and Anders is smiling back at her and they’re both smiling at each other for a few moments before Anders holds up his hand and his palm flares to life.

Away from the chaos of battle and rending of her own skin, Hawke is better able to concentrate on the sensations at hand. Or rather, at head. She is close enough to watch the healing in detail, the way a twist of Anders’ fingers brings energy into the world. There must be some method to this, though damned if she can figure it out on her own. The Hawke sisters had talked about magic over the years, of course, as their lives seemed full of nothing else, but Bethany had kept much to herself and Hawke respected what agency her sister could keep over her own life.

“It’s beautiful,” she finds herself saying, tongue running across the inside of her lips. She can already feel the hum of magic ( _Anders’_ magic, she reminds herself, it’s not like she really notices any other) and her skin prickles in anticipation.

“I’m glad you think so,” Anders says, and before she can ask what he means he casts the spell.

_Thank Andraste for chest pieces_ , she thinks as she feels her nipples harden beneath her leather armor. The magic is cool this time instead of warm, a soothing presence against her pounding head and frayed nerves. She sighs and relaxes as the energy licks down the back of her neck and shoulders, almost like a tender caress. Or a pre-coitus rubdown. Except from the inside out. Which is… weird, she will absolutely grant this is weird, but it’s also doing ridiculous things to her body right now. She does not squirm, she _will_ not squirm, she should not even be _doing_ this, there are probably specific lines of the Chant about using an apostate’s magic to get off, and-

“You could have used a potion at home,” comes Anders’ voice, both far away and dangerously close at once. “But you came down here instead. And waited in the filth and the dark for more than an hour so I could heal you myself.”

The pain fades but the magic remains for a few moments that stretch into forever. She swears she can feel the energy dribble down the back of her neck, warming as it merges with her spine. A small shudder, _small_ , ripples through her body when she hears his voice, low and questioning.

“Why is it that you came here, Hawke?”

Hawke opens her eyes and stares into his.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. And then: “I have to go.”

And she flees.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders broods, Merrill interrupts, and Justice is 500% done.

Maker, but he’s exhausted.

He slumps into the alcove at the back of his clinic that functions as a makeshift bedroom, one thin curtain the only barrier between it and the rest of Darktown. The first few weeks here he’d also inscribed a noise dampening ward, allowing Anders some measure of peace in the few hours Justice allocated for his rest. But when he’d awoken one morning to find survivors of a chokedamp outbreak lined up on his doorstep, relieved and angry as they surged into his clinic with shouts of _where were you_ and _didn’t you hear us calling_ … 

He’d lost three adults and two children that day, and Justice has never forgiven him. (Not that Anders has forgiven himself, either.) 

So now the only semblance of privacy after a long day of tending to Kirkwall’s refuse is a tattered sheet strung up along a discarded clothesline. The lantern outside his clinic is snuffed, but enough of Darktown knows that Anders will answer if he is there. He has to. If he doesn’t, then who else will?

He lets these thoughts buoy him over deeper waters he’d rather not examine right now as he slips out of his clothes. The feathered pauldron hangs over the back of his chair where it gets a fond little pat. The feathers, grimy as they are now -- how does one even go about cleaning those things? -- are soft enough to remind him of fur and a rough tongue seeking his hand in greeting. His smile is joyless when he thinks of Pounce. _I hope Nathaniel’s treating you well._  

Justice stirs in the back of his mind when he thinks of his old life at Amaranthine and Anders scowls as he starts unbuckling his belts. “Yes yes, mustn’t become sentimental and distract myself from my glorious purpose. Maker forbid anything remind me of-”

The word _home_ dies before it can cross his lips. He takes a breath and waits for the swirl of emotions to settle like so much dust.

The belts join the pauldron and his small pouches nestle at the side table next to his bed. He shimmies out of his robes and folds those carefully, setting them on the seat of the chair and then moving his pouches to rest on them. There is no excess space in the clinic and only as many personal belongings in his alcove that he could justify to himself. A makeshift bed, given in payment when one of his patients realized he’d been using the same sort of cot as everyone else in his clinic. A table that is really a crate with another board crossed over its top, holding a book and some writing materials. The chair, salvaged and used more for extra storage than actually sitting. Another crate for what few other clothes he owns. His staff leaning in the corner. Everything else he keeps out in the clinic proper, as much Darktown’s as his own.

He pulls on a loose shirt and sleeping trousers before collapsing (a controlled collapse, so he doesn’t actually break the wooden frame of dubious quality) into bed. He prefers to sleep naked, but enough midnight alarms have taught him the virtue of being clothed for any eventuality. 

Though his body’s spent his mind is still treading open water, occupying itself with whatever it can to avoid the Big Scary Thing swimming beneath. Well, Big Scary _Things_ if he’s entirely honest with himself, which he tends to be now that he’s joined at the cerebellum with Justice. Big Scary Things He Would Rather Avoid, Thank You For Inquiring. Of course, Justice would no more allow him to avoid his subconscious and not-so-subconscious monsters any more than he would allow Anders to avoid his duties at the clinic or his dedication to their Work.  

“Don’t,” he warns, arm pressed over his eyes. “Out of all the things I am not in the mood for, your disapproval at me helping a friend is nowhere near the top of that list.”

Justice, as usual, ignores Anders, and the part of him that is Them starts flicking through memories of that day. This is not normal, comes the obvious thought as his inner eye turns on Hawke. This is not right. And what Anders had felt earlier that day, the surge of energy and pleasure as he’d turned his healing magic onto his friend, was _wrong_. Is wrong. Will always be wrong.

“You sound like a Chantry sister,” he complains, speaking out loud more to hear his own voice and feel his own lips move. It is not really a conversation because he can barely tell where he ends and Justice begins anymore. He argues with himself because he can pretend there are clear delineations, that his own guilt and anxiety over this belong to Justice alone. “No one was hurt. I _helped_ her. She came to me. Isn’t that enough?”

He knows the answer to that question before the twist in his gut. What he wouldn’t give to be able to storm away now, to sneak into Nathaniel’s room so they could both complain about their uptight companion, laugh as Pounce took up residence in Nathaniel’s quiver, fall silent as Anders leaned forward to kiss the other man…

Distraction. Irrelevant. Dangerous.

“Well yes,” Anders mutters as he turns to face the wall in lieu of actually being able to turn his back on Justice. “That’s entirely the point, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t been fool enough to think his time with Nathaniel had been anything more than a dalliance, a way for them both to burn off steam in between life-or-death missions. It had seemed obvious to him that sexuality among Grey Wardens was about on par with sexuality within the Circle: taken where you could get it with some of the only other people in the world who understood what you were going through, all while under the clear and present danger of your partner being swept away from you forever, killed or even worse than. Karl had been his exception and look where _that_ landed him. Where it landed both of them. (He presses that thought away, strangles it, because for all Justice’s disapproval of sex and emotional attachments the spirit has _strong_ feelings about Karl Thekla’s fate and Anders just doesn’t have the ability to deal with Vengeance right now.) Nathaniel and he had agreed that their fling meant nothing in the romantic sense and that had been a reasonable request from Anders’ perspective. But if he had _known_ Nathaniel would be the last person he ever fucked…

A knock on the door interrupts his brooding; timid and soft as it is, he leaps out of bed and into his shoes before hastily checking his clothes (status: on) and grabbing his staff. The shoes may be unnecessary for _some_ grumpy elves he’d rather not think about, but after treating so many injuries from rusted nails and Maker only knew what else he would prefer not to take any chances. He pauses with his hand on the door and calls, “Hello?”

“Hello?” responds a voice that manages to be cheerful under even the most dire of circumstances. “Are you awake, Anders?”

“No. This is all a Fade dream and you just _think_ you’ve walked from the Alienage to Darktown in the middle of the night.”

The voice on the other side of the door pauses and Anders can practically hear those green eyes widen. “Are you sure? Because this feels awfully real to me. Come to think of it I can’t remember falling asleep, I’ve been up since-”

Anders opens the door and does not bite the elf’s face off in frustration. Surely he deserves points for that. “Merrill. You’re… here?”

Merrill grins a bit uncertainly at him. “See, not an illusion after all, you were worried for nothing.” She fishes around in her pockets for a moment while Anders considers the merits of explaining, once again, how sarcasm works.

“You might as well come in,” he says, standing back and gesturing through the door. Just because his clinic is technically open to all of Kirkwall doesn’t mean he has to be a gracious host to every seemingly-uninjured blood mage who shows up for a midnight chat. 

(The worst part, he reflects as Merrill walks in and glances about curiously, is how _innocent_ she seems. She reminds him of the newest apprentices at the Ferelden Circle, both human and elven, only she doesn’t even know enough to be frightened. Not of blood magic, not of her own power, not of _anything_. And that’s what ends up frightening Anders most of all.)  

“Do you live here?” she asks curiously. “I know you work here and that you work an awful lot, but is this where you sleep at night too? Isn’t Darktown dangerous at night? There are empty houses in the Alienage, I’m sure after all you’ve done for the elves there that no one would mind-” 

“Merrill, is there a reason you’re here?” Her eager expression falls and he feels a pang of sympathy that he tries to counteract with memories of Merrill slashing open her own skin to augment her power. His voice softens despite himself. “I mean, why you’re here at this time of night? Darktown _is_ dangerous. People don’t usually come here for social calls.”

“Well no, that would be rather ridiculous wouldn’t it? I just got back from exploring with Hawke and she found this.” She pulls out a folded piece of cloth with something tucked inside, handing it to a bemused Anders. “She wanted you to have it.”

He takes the cloth bundle, unfolds it, and says, “What.”

“It would have been great to have you along with us tonight. You know me, I’m not the best at healing but I do what I can to keep up. It’s a pity you had so many people to look after today. Promise you’ll come tomorrow if Hawke asks?”

“ _What_.”

Merrill looks between Anders’ increasingly confused frown and the object he holds in his hand. “Oh, I’m not entirely sure what that is. Pretty though, isn’t it? I assumed it was a human thing. She said you’d know what it was. Do you?”

Anders takes a breath and does not, by the grace of the Maker, mutter obscenities where Merrill can hear. “Yes, I do. Did she say _why_ she wants me to have it?”

“Only that it reminded her of you. Maybe she thinks it’ll bring out the lovely color of your eyes.” She suppresses a giggle that Anders immediately recognizes as the universal I Know Something You Don’t Know giggle.

(In addition to sarcasm, perhaps Anders needs to have another talk with Merrill about subtlety.)

“Well isn’t that…” He gropes for all the words in his vocabulary and settles on, “...nice.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Merrill says, leaning over to brush some of Darktown’s ever present grime from her clothes. 

She holds one arm stiffly and it’s only then he notices the small gash in her shoulder, not convenient enough to have been self-inflicted. Anders watches her for a moment before setting his baffling gift to the side. He’s speaking before he can first run his words by his brain. “Is your arm hurt? I can fix that for you while you’re here. Free of charge for a friend, of course.”

He offers Merrill a smile he hopes passes as sincere as she beams back. “Oh that would be wonderful, thank you! I was going to try to patch it up myself, practice my healing spell where it wasn’t quite so vital I get it right or we all get crushed by revenants. But since you’re so kind to offer-" 

He can feel Justice rumble to life, having been half-dozing after ascertaining the situation had not, up until this point, required his judgment. A question prods the back of his head that Anders does his best to ignore. Energy flares in his outstretched palm as he summons magic from the Fade; a spell like this is so familiar it takes barely any focus at all, though focus he does. From gathering the magic to casting the spell he turns his entire attention to his body, conducting his own experiment. Warm and tingly but not _warm and tingly_ , a gentle gnaw in the pit of his stomach as he depletes a small amount of mana, satisfaction as he sees Merrill’s skin smooth over and heal rapidly without so much as a scar. He takes a pointed moment to shift his hips a bit when Merrill isn’t watching. No, not even remotely hard. Normal. All this is normal.

Whatever has been happening between Hawke and him, it isn’t happening now.

Merrill bubbles over with thanks and continues to chatter as he escorts her to the door. He only pauses long enough to ask if she’ll be safe making it back to the Alienage, though truthfully he pities whatever thugs attempt to take Merrill on her own in any back alleys.

“I’ll be fine,” Merrill says, stifling a yawn. “Thank you, Anders. You’re a good man.” She waves goodnight and disappears into the shadows, heading up and out of Darktown.

Anders has all of five seconds peace and quiet before he hears, with more clarity than if he’d been using his own ears, **_You used her._**  

He closes the clinic door and retreats to his alcove once again. “Funny,” he says as he pushes aside the curtain and starts rummaging through his meager storage. “I don’t remember asking you a damn thing.”

Words have largely been unnecessary between the two of them, living as they did in each other’s minds and with more intimacy than he could hope to achieve with any human lover. After all, words can be used to lie and mishandle the truth, to obscure reality, to trick one’s perceptions, to stroke one’s ego. Justice has always been about deeds over words; he _knows_ what must be done and by extension so does Anders. Explaining himself, _justifying_ himself, would only get in the way.

Still. There must be some level of satisfaction knowing that if need be, Justice can still berate Anders the old-fashioned way.

**_You healed her for the wrong reasons_.**

“Oh, so now my motivation holds weight with you? And here I thought intention paled in the light of-” He stops himself and shakes his head, lips pressed angrily between his teeth. _Intention means nothing. Isn’t that what you always say? Judge my life by its actions, not the warm fuzzies behind them._

**_It is pointless to take out your frustrations on me. It is your own weaknesses--_**

_Damn it to the Void, Justice, I know what my weaknesses are!_

Anders’ head is pounding with the force of maintaining this conversation, of stretching his mental faculties enough to pretend that they’re still separate and this isn’t just him talking to himself. If he didn’t _remember_ Justice in a different body, of conversations over the table at Vigil’s Keep, he would be seriously questioning his sanity at this point. More so than usual, at least.

_I healed her. I put aside the fact I don’t like her or the evil she dabbles in and did something good. I would have thought you’d approve, if anything._

Anders knows he must be imagining the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his head, the disapproving frown he can still bring to mind even years after Justice vacated Kristoff’s body. **_Do not abuse your position of power and privilege among these people._**

_Yes, because that’s what got me into this mess, I’m just drowning in privileges. Such a fortunate life I lead._  

He can go on, hurling bitter sarcasm at the part of his brain labeled “Not Anders, But Not _Not_ Anders Either” all night. But he stops, overcome by a wave of exhaustion and despair.

“You win, Justice,” he mutters, “just like you always do. I won’t do it again.”

Justice says nothing.

Anders pulls out what he’d been looking for: a small keepsake box, almost frivolous down here in Darktown. It came with a lock and key that were more symbolic than anything. Anyone with enough skill could pick the lock or break open the box entirely, but it had been given to him as a place to put things that were _his_. Away from the Wardens, away from the Templars, a place that was ostensibly, selfishly, for him alone. It has remained empty since Nathaniel had slipped it into his hands years ago, a birthday gift from someone who remembered what it was like to need a secret place even if one had no secrets to put there. Anders carefully blows away the dust, admiring the Amaranthine knotwork carved into the dark wood. Nathaniel had been a practical man and preferred simple gifts himself, but somehow he intuited what Anders had wanted and needed that year without Anders himself ever knowing.

Anders waits to be chastised, told that he could sell this box and use the money to buy more supplies from the clinic. But Justice has retreated now, perhaps as tired as his host after their extended conversation. Anders isn’t sure if he should feel relieved, annoyed, or abandoned.

He goes out into the clinic and picks up the cloth bundle before returning to his bed, checking twice to reassure himself that the curtain is closed and no one will see him. Unfolding the cloth, he carefully lifts the bronze amulet embossed with the symbol of the Black Divine from the Tevinter Chantry. His breath catches in wonder of what Hawke meant for him to do with it and in fear of what would happen if he were caught wearing this around his neck. 

“What are you trying to tell me, Hawke?” he asks the amulet softly, letting its fine gold chain slip over and around his fingers.

Before long, he tucks the amulet away in Nathaniel’s wooden box and locks it, slipping the key into one of his pouches and returning the box to its hiding place beneath a pile of clothes and assorted belongings. He slips under his ratty covers and closes his eyes. It is a long time before he finally drifts off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric and Hawke have a heart-to-heart and Anders has a good wank.

It’s not so much that Hawke avoids Anders as that she takes pains to never be in the same place as him at the same time he’s there. She starts relying on Merrill and healing potions more often, much to Merrill’s pride and the rest of her companions’ chagrin. It’s been a week and she very stubbornly Hasn’t Been To Darktown, even going out of her way not to accept profitable ventures anywhere near the area. Finally on their way back after a grueling trek up and down the Wounded Coast, Varric pulls Hawke to the side. The two drop back behind Merrill and Isabela who walk arm in arm, laughing as they recount the day’s victories over the Tal’Vashoth.

_At least someone’s happy right now_ , Hawke thinks bitterly as she glances at Varric. 

Varric glances back and makes no move to speak first. The two walk together for a few long minutes, Hawke slowing her stride so Varric doesn’t have to jog to keep up. (She’s a giver like that.) Varric shoots her another pointed look and she sighs heavily, blowing hair out of her face.

Hawke finally gives in and says, “What do you want, Tethras?”

“So much hostility for a friendly walk along the beach. And here I thought we were old pals.”

“Friends don’t harass friends-” Wait, that’s not true. “If you were really my friend you’d leave me-” No, not that either. She drops back to her old standby of _fuck this I need a pint_. “What do you want?”

“The question isn’t what _I_ want. The question is what _you did_.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Hawke sighs, starting to drag a hand over her face. She stops, examines the blood and dirt coating her skin, and makes a halfhearted attempt to wipe it off on her pants leg.

“I see,” Varric says. “You know you’re just smearing that around and making it worse, right?”

She throws both hands up in the air and stalks forward angrily. “Story of my life.”

“Hey hey hey, slow down there. Didn’t know you’d be so touchy tonight or I would’ve bought you flowers first.” Varric hurries after her and waves after Isabela, who’d turned around to see what the fuss was about. Isabela nods and returns to chattering with Merrill, though she keeps her head tilted back just so as if to eavesdrop.

Hawke mutters, “You know I hate flowers,” but slows down again and makes a show of waiting for her friend to catch up.

“A bottle of brandy and an Antivan whore, then.”

“Better.”

“So,” Varric starts again, “you and Blondie have a fight?”

“No, it’s just.” Hawke waves a hand vaguely. “Complicated.”

“Complicated as in you started having feelings for the guy, or complicated as in you decided to grow a sense of moral fiber?” 

“...both?” 

The dwarf laughs and nudges her in the hip. “Well there’s your problem right there. And here you promised moving on up to Hightown wouldn’t turn you all noble on us.”

Hawke gives an exaggerated yawn and ends up using Varric’s head as an armrest. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of how much my sleeping quarters _don’t_ smell like the Hanged Man anymore.”

“And here I thought Rivaini was the evasive one.”

“Isabela,” Hawke calls, “Varric’s talking about you behind your back again.”

“Hawke,” Isabela calls back, “go back to talking about your love life so Merrill and I can keep judging you for it.”

“In a nice way!” Merrill adds helpfully, then turns to Isabela. “Why are we all shouting? Is this a human and Varric thing?”

While Isabela takes up the mantle of explaining banter once again, Varric swats at Hawke’s hand. “If you’re going to use me as a nightstand you have to at least pretend to talk with me seriously.”

“I don’t want to,” Hawke mutters. “I just wish things were normal. That’s all.”

“Oh, is that all? Well let me clear that right up for you.” He finally gets out from under Hawke’s elbow and makes a show of rearranging his hair. “I don’t get it. You’ve never made a habit of running away from _anything_ , not since the day I met you. What’s so special about Blondie that’s got you bent out of shape?”

Hawke shrugs a shoulder. The problem is -- scratch that, one of _many_ many problems currently facing Hawke’s increasingly complicated web of emotional entanglement -- that she _doesn’t_ know. She’s used to dealing with morally grey areas, but more so she’s used to knowing her own mind and making the decisions that have to be made. If there’s any cause for uncertainty in her life she either ignores it until it goes away or stabs it until it’s bled to death and _then_ goes away. It’s never failed her before... up until the point where it has.

But all she says is, “Just something I’ve gotta figure out on my own, Varric.”

“Figure it out sooner rather than later, will you? I don’t know how many more of these adventures I can stand with Daisy being the one who plays doctor.”

“I heard that!” Merrill says indignantly. “Just because I have a little trouble differentiating between my healing spells and my mind blasts in the middle of battle-”

“Kitten,” Isabela says gently, “that’s like saying I have a little trouble with commitment or that Varric has a bit of a height issue.”

Hawke has to shake her head and laugh as her companions launch into a good-natured tirade. Even if it does nothing to soothe the pit of confusion in her stomach, at least she can find distraction from her problems for a little while.

 \---

There is no place for distraction with Justice. Between the clinic, their manifesto, and the burgeoning mage underground, their work consumes them -- and sometimes, that suits Anders just fine. He throws himself into the cause and allows someone else (even if that someone else is technically him) to make the decisions for a change. There is no uncertainty with Justice, no wavering, no fear, and with all these absences comes a peculiar comfort. Together as a unit they are strong and sure. Without Anders, Justice is just another stranded refugee in a strange land unable to ever go home. And without Justice, Anders just another apostate on the run with revolution on his mind. They need to be a _they_ , now more than ever. Whether they like it or not.

But whatever _they_ are now, Anders is human and can’t deny his urges forever. It is awkward and more than a little demeaning that he has to bargain for rights to his own person, to explain the ache in his body to a spirit that for all its years with living hosts _still_ does not fully understand the base desires of physical existence. Anders sometimes finds that he has to remind himself to eat, or explain exactly why he cannot function on two sleepless nights in a row. The spirit is so, so willing, but even it has to acquiesce when the flesh can’t keep pace. Meanwhile, the flesh would like to point out that it _is_ willing about quite a lot of things, and perhaps the spirit should expand its boundaries. Or at least stop being such a stick in the mud. 

And so they had argued and fought after the sheen of their new reality had worn off and they realized just how very stuck together they were. Ultimately it became clear that without some form of release, Anders would be unable to focus on the tasks at hand. That which Justice forbade, Anders longed for all the stronger with an obsession that should only ever have been directed at their work. Finally Anders had pointed out that the best way to overcome desire is, after all, to sate it so it no longer remains a distraction. Maybe Justice had put his incorporeal glowing foot down when it came to the Blooming Rose, but surely some self care wouldn’t be out of the question. Justice had been suspicious, to say the least, but had cautiously agreed. Even he had to admit that Anders was in better form when he took time to rub one off on a regular basis -- so long as there was nothing more pressing to attend to at the time.

(Anders had seriously considered asking what could possibly be more _pressing_ than this, but given Justice’s past mastery of innuendo the mage decided to let that one slide.)

That’s why he can keep his alcove stocked with vials of oil and the cleanest spare rags he can find. That’s why he can slip a hand beneath the blankets without Justice grumbling (too much) about wasted time and energy. That’s also why he can maintain some semblance of sanity in a world where relief and satisfaction are hard to come by even in the best of times.

He starts tonight, as he has so many nights, thinking about Nathaniel.

Hands push the tattered sheets away as he shifts and spreads his legs, eyes closing as he summons up memories of his old friend. Which one matches his mood? Their first kiss, surprising and sweet by the fire in the Great Hall? The first time Nathaniel had taken him to bed, a tangle of limbs and muffled moans just before dawn? The time Anders was nearly killed during a mission and, upon his return, had been slammed against the door of Nathaniel’s room and kissed in a flurry of fear-tinged lust and something that felt alarmingly like-- 

Anders moans as his hips eagerly buck into his hands. _Yes_ , Maker, _that’s_ where he wants to be tonight.  

One hand palms his erection through his smallclothes while the other slides easily under his shirt, pads of his fingers sliding up his chest, backs of his nails sliding down. A gentle touch, but one he imagines with callouses rougher than his own, marked just so by countless years of archery practice. His thumb finds a nipple and applies pressure in a slow, lazy circle before his fingers suddenly squeeze and twist. It’s not the same when he does it to himself, not when he can anticipate where and when the sensation comes, but it’s rough enough and needed enough that he arches up with a soft moan hummed behind closed lips. Less than a minute in and he’s already trembling beneath his own touch. One of _those_ nights, apparently.

He hums again and gives similar treatment to his other nipple, a slow and steady rub at first before a sharp pinch sends another bolt through his spine. His tongue flutters out for a brief moment before he pulls his lower lip between his teeth, worrying the flesh until it swells and reddens as it would be crushed within a kiss.

_“--have to be quiet,” Anders moans against the other man’s mouth, rocking down against the thigh so thoughtfully pressed between his legs. “You know how Velanna is when she misses her beauty rest-”_

_“Anders,” Nathaniel breathes, teeth worrying the mage’s lip, fingers trailing down his sides to pull at belts and clasps and pouches, “shut up. Or better yet-” The knee becomes insistent, pressing against the swell of Anders’ erection. “You could put that mouth to good use.”_

_Fingers threading through the other man’s hair. “Suppose I don’t want to, Lord Howe?” Anders grins in challenge, then moans at the mouth pressed just below his ear._

_“Then I suppose, ser mage, that I would have to convince you.”_

He remembers everything, _everything_ in startling detail, from the smell of Nathaniel’s skin to the wonderfully delicious pain of each and every love bite. His toes curl before both knees fall and leave his legs spread wide open, a wanton invitation for more. It only takes a few moments to fumble with the vial of oil, but his body aches with vicious desire and he remembers begging, _pleading_ to be touched, to end this teasing charade and give him what he _wants_. Slick fingers finally curl around his shaft and the head of his cock while his other hand clasps against his mouth, muffling the sounds of pleasure he can’t possibly hold back. By _both_ Andraste’s tits, it’s been too long since he’s felt any hands but his own on his body, or bit back moans in a bed that isn’t empty without anyone else to overhear.

“Nathan,” he purrs against his hand, and then: “Nathaniel. Maker, _please_.”  

_In the darkness they can only use hands and lips to guide their touches, fingers and tongues exploring naked skin. The fantasy shifts without notice at first, the body pressed against his own morphing to another’s shape. The strength is still there, the dry humor, the bright eyes hiding pain he wants to kiss and soothe away. He tilts his head down now to kiss, tugging away at armor Nathaniel Howe has never worn. The voice is higher now, quicker to laugh, but just as dominant as it commands: “On your knees. You’ll earn your keep tonight.”_

_Fantasy fills in where experience cannot, but the details pale in comparison to the intensity and devotion in which Anders devours his lover. Moans fill the room, making him dizzy with lust and pride. A hand tugs at his hair now loose from its band and he locks gazes with the woman sharing his bed. Blue energy crackles around his fingers and he offers it to her, whispering, “Are you sure?”_

A part of him not swept up in sensations asks if he’s _really_ doing this, if he’s _really_ laying here fantasizing about what Hawke tastes like. The rest of him ignores that part, setting his rationality firmly in the corner and making it think about what it’s done. Namely, trying to interrupt a perfectly good -- if increasingly unexpected -- visualization exercise. Yes. Yes he _is_ fantasizing about Hawke, about pressing a palm full of magic against her skin, rubbing it into tired muscle and watching the pain and worries fall from her eyes, only to be replaced with something wilder, more uncontrollable and _oh_ so much better.

His toes curl again and he whispers, tentative, testing out the word on his tongue: “ _Hawke._ ”

One hand fists himself while the other summons a spark of healing energy and runs it across one thigh. It’s not the same, not _nearly_ the same as the sensation of healing _her_ , the giddy rush of power through his fingertips, the electric current as he reaches out and touches the matrix of power all Hawke’s own. Making her strong and whole again, _him_ , Anders, the abominable apostate. 

(At the word _abomination_ he feels Justice stir for the first time since pointedly looking away that evening, glowering at the implication. Anders is too close to do anything but laugh that _this_ , of all things in his head tonight, is what the spirit finds offensive.)

The grip around his cock tightens as he moans wordlessly, both hands at it now while his body arches and writhes. Nathaniel and Hawke merging together, his two raven-haired, heartbroken -- what, pretend lovers? Fuckbuddies? Friends? Memories flow into unfilled desires and back again, leaving Anders confused and panting and altogether wishing he had an extra pair of hands. He can hear himself begin to babble, tension growing in the pit of his belly and spreading through every limb, every inch of skin. He wants her, he wants her in his bed, in his clinic, in his arms, wants the inexplicable pleasure that comes from healing her wounds and hers alone. He wants--

_It’s messy and joyous and sordid, mixing the holiest form of magic with the basest of all pleasures. Together they move and fuck and kiss, curses flowing as easily from their lips as blessings. She clings to him and he to her, names whispered in the dark, hands groping for faces, the familiar warmth and swell of his cock as he nears--_

Everything is spiraling out of his control and for once, that is exactly what he needs. He comes hard in his hands, orgasm hitting his body with enough force to make him forget everything, even Justice, even Anders, even the division between the two. Greedily he gasps in the lungful of air he hadn’t known he’d been denying himself, trembling hands finally falling from his oil-slicked body. He collapses back into bed (how long had he been arched like that, how loud had he been?) and for several long, blissful moments, floats on the sea of his own sated desire.

“And you said,” he says breathlessly, unable to keep from slurring his words, “that wanking was a bad idea. Think I’d... rather be corrupt, all the same to you.”

He debates the merits of interrupting his bliss to clean himself off, luxuriating as he is in the aftershocks of pleasure and warmth. He’s just decided to let morning-after Anders deal with the mess when Justice does the mental equivalent of clearing his throat. Together they pull up the memory of calling themselves _abominable_ and, quite clearly, draw a large X through the thought. 

“Well thank you Justice,” he mumbles as he lets a sleepy grin cross his face. “Awful sweet of you to say.”

As he drifts to sleep he resolves that in the morning, he’ll get to the bottom of what all this means -- the effect he has on Hawke, the effect she has on _him_ , anything and everything inbetween. In the meantime he intends to enjoy the heavy, restful sleep that only a good orgasm can bring. 

Later he won’t remember how his hands wiped his body clean or how they adjusted his clothes in some semblance of expected modesty. Neither will he remember tucking the blankets up to his chin and curling up in a warm, protective ball.  

Justice settles back around Anders’ mind like a dog by the fire: ever loyal, ever watchful, and ever on guard. Together, spirit and human sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Qunari poison gas is, oddly enough, the best way to get someone in bed.

Anders means to find Hawke the very next day and confront her, or talk with her, or _something_ , but to his great surprise she shows up on his doorstep with Aveline and Merrill in tow. There’s a look on her face just for him, like she wants to say something badly, but all that comes out is a cocky, “So, if you’re not doing anything right now--”

“Through avoiding me, are you?” Anders says softly, feeling a small satisfaction, however hollow, when Hawke drops her gaze. But she only drops it for a moment before blue eyes meet his again.

“We could use your help tonight,” she says quietly.  

Over Hawke’s shoulder Anders can see Aveline shifting restlessly and Merrill beaming at him with no small amount of hope. _Promise you’ll say yes_ , the blood mage had said a week ago as he’d bandaged wounds she couldn’t have healed on her own. His eyes go back to Hawke and he exhales slowly, turning away from the door.

“So what are we up against?”

“Oh, you know, stolen Qunari gas that makes people crazy and then die.” 

The relief is so evident in her voice it catches him off guard. He pauses as he’s rifling through his supply cabinet and thinks, _she really thought I was going to say no_. “Well that’s always a fun way to start the week.” 

They divvy up potions -- extra lyrium for Merrill and himself, health potions for everyone -- and make the climb up to Lowtown. On the way Hawke briefs him about the _saar-qamek_ and that little asshole of a dwarf Javaris and _Maker_ she doesn’t know if the Qunari play cards but she’s fairly certain the Arishok could bluff his way through a dozen rounds of Wicked Grace without breaking a sweat, and --   

Anders steps just close enough so their shoulders brush and Hawke falls silent. Under his breath he says, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when you can nervously out-prattle Merrill.”

“That’s not nerves,” Hawke murmurs back, eyes on her feet. “That’s just Merrill.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Suppose I do. Where does that leave us, Anders?”

Now it’s Anders’ turn to be quiet as he mulls this over. He’s still a bit testy at Hawke for none-too-subtly avoiding him and getting their friends in over their heads. (Though Hawke tends to do that whether Anders is around to patch everyone up afterwards or not.) “Are you angry with me?”

Her eyebrows jump as she shoots a glance his way. “No, of _course_ I’m not angry. Are you?”

“No.” He considers. “Not really. I just--”

“Not that listening to this isn’t fascinating,” Aveline calls over her shoulder, “but do either of you want to focus on the task at hand? Or shall I do that for you?”

Merrill stops suddenly, grimacing as she scents the air. “Do you smell that?”

It’s only then Hawke realizes there’s coughing in the air (and should a sound like that _really_ carry so far and so loudly?) along with a bitter, acrid smell that sets her stomach roiling. Her hands flex for her daggers as she exchanges a look with Anders, who’s already reaching for his staff. “Later?”

“Later,” he confirms, and they head into battle.

\--- 

Later -- _much_ later, hours later, after fighting and choking on pungent air and Maker, how does an element so light feel so _heavy_ in his lungs -- they’re catching their collective breath back at the clinic and Anders is swigging his last lyrium potion in preparation for more healing. The fanatics out that night had been unskilled but ferocious and unrelenting, and the _saar-qamek_ slowly poisoned his friends’ bodies even as the alleyway finally cleared. Anders is lightheaded but satisfied when Aveline and Merrill’s wounds knit up and he declares them fit for departure. But Aveline needs to talk to Hawke about the Qunari and Merrill is helping herself to Anders’ drawers, looking for (of all things) a kettle to put on some tea, and no one seems particularly keen on _leaving_ right now, exhausted as they all are. Anders waves and makes some excuse before slipping behind his alcove’s curtain and curling up in bed, still dressed and still bloody.

He doesn’t think he’s fallen asleep until he’s being shaken awake, gently, a cool vial pressed into his hands. “Here,” Hawke says, “Merrill found it… somewhere. She may have rearranged everything when I wasn’t looking.”

Sick as he feels he manages a smile and sits up, uncorking the vial with his teeth. Not that lyrium ever goes _bad_ but there’s a definite quality to older potions that feels a bit like knocking back a shot of ice-cold liquor that burns and freezes his nerves all at once. He grimaces as he takes the potion in one pull, only to relax a moment later as energy rushes in.

“Better?” Hawke asks, leaning against the wall. The curtain is pulled back behind her, opening into a dark and empty clinic.

Anders holds up an experimental hand and twists, a faint glow dancing at his fingertips. “Better,” he agrees before closing his eyes and turning healing energy on himself. The spell cleanses his airways and bloodstream, chasing out the last of the _saar-qamek._ He takes a deep breath as the ache fades from his lungs. “Sorry,” he says, fumbling for a moment before the candle on his wall sparks and illuminates his alcove. “I should have gotten to you first.”

Hawke’s face is a million different things in the candlelight, regarding him with… what, intense curiosity? Apprehension? It occurs to him that there’s a woman in his for-lack-of-a-better-word-bedroom for the first time in ever, and under normal circumstances that do not include having trekked across the city to fight gas-crazed Lowtowners this might be awkward. It certainly has the potential to become awkward. (That’s the thing about awkwardness. Just when you think you’ve got it tossed out for good it jimmies the lock on your back door and ambushes you where you least expect it.) But he rather thinks, knock on wood, that they’ve moved so far into awkward territory they’ve come back around in a strange semblance of normalcy instead. He looks at her and she looks at him and they both start talking at once.

“Sorry,” Anders says again, gesturing to her. “You go first.”

Her lip twitches a bit. “Do you always wait until you’ve passed out before healing yourself?”

“You mean do I heal others first before healing myself if I can?”

“Oh you _would_ reword it to make you the heroic martyr.”

“Should I ask you again if you’re angry? Because it sounds like you’re angry.”

Whatever response she has to give gets swept away in a coughing fit. Anders pushes away a throb of guilt and stands to look her over. “Son of a bitch,” she wheezes, and whether that’s directed at Anders or Javaris or the damn Qunari, Anders will never know. He urges her to sit and, because there’s nowhere else in his tiny alcove, she perches on the edge of his bed. The coughs subside and she looks more annoyed than anything, absently rubbing her chest.

“Do you want me to get a potion?” he asks, and there is so much he doesn’t say and doesn’t _have_ to say with that question. It feels a bit like cheating.

“Do you have enough in you for more healing?”

“I do.”

“Then no. I don’t want a potion.”

They should talk about this. They should really, really talk about this.

Energy flares to life in his palm and he says softly, “Then take my hand.”

\---

It is heat and light and color and _rightness_ that flows through her veins like so much warmed honey. Her eyes flutter closed so she doesn’t have to look him in the face when he sees her expression because there’s absolutely no hiding it now. Her blood sings as magic washes away traces of _saar-qamek_ to leave her strong and whole again, even better than before. The warmth washes up from her hand (has it really been that long since she cut her palm in the alley?) and cascades up her arm, soothing muscles and erasing cuts and bruises as though they never happened. Anders takes her other hand and it’s only then she realizes he’s breathing heavily too, kneeling in front of her with their fingers interlaced. To an outsider it would look like a sweet moment between lovers, and a distant corner of Hawke’s mind would agree that this _is_ sweet. It’s the weirdest kind of sweet she’s ever experienced and she’s not exactly paying attention to that particular aspect of this scene in her increasingly bizarre life, but it is comforting to be touched like this. And distracting. Among other things.  

The warmth surges up both arms now and sinks into her shoulders, her neck, the top of her spine. She shudders a bit and slumps forward as her entire body relaxes without her permission. “Andraste’s puckered _asshole_.”

He laughs, a warm, throaty sound and oh _Maker_ that’s his bedroom voice, isn’t it? His forehead comes up to gently support hers. “I know. I feel it too.”

“Gonna need another potion at this rate.” Her pulse is pounding in her ears and she would swear in that moment it were doubled, that she can feel another heartbeat alongside hers. She stiffens for a moment as the magic gathers and descends in a lazy spiral all the way down her spine, thrumming just under her skin. “You’re… you’re controlling this.”

“Healing takes more finesse than throwing fireballs,” he says, and there’s another beautiful laugh. When has Anders ever sounded so relaxed? When has she _felt_ so relaxed? He squeezes her knuckles and another wave of magic washes over her, stealing her breath and putting a moan at the back of her throat. She catches her lip between her teeth and swallows the sound as Anders continues, “But if you’re asking if I _mean_ to make you sound like that…”  

Her pulse hammers in her hands and in her heart and deep in her cunt, bringing a flush to her skin. If her eyes were open she knows the world would be swirling out of control the way it only does with enough booze in her system to put down a stallion. She thinks she rather prefers this method of loosening up and forfeiting control to her previous method involving alcohol. Oh, Varric will be _so_ sad to lose a drinking partner. “Any idea what…” Maker, everything’s sensitive all over and this close she can _smell_ Anders and feel his breath and she wants nothing more than to pull him down on the bed and snog his unfairly pretty face like horny teenagers rutting behind a barn. She gathers her thoughts and tries again. “What’s causing this?”

“I’ve a few ideas, but really, this… is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. I promise.” His voice sounds taut and wanting as his face shifts and he presses a scruffy cheek against hers. “Can you breathe for me?”

She does, a deep, steady breath as her lungs open completely free of the poisoned gas. The breath steadies her somewhat and she presses back against his cheek, corner of her lips touching his jaw. When he murmurs an approving, “There we go,” and threads a hand through her hair, she can’t help turning to kiss and nuzzle those wonderful fingers. He strokes her lips and without a thought she pulls a finger into her mouth with an obscene, wet sound. The energy hums between her lips and teeth as her tongue curls around the digit. This time it’s _his_ turn to moan and she gives a proud little grin, nipping at the first joint before pulling back.

Her eyes open for the first time in several long minutes. Anders looks positively disheveled -- and yes, some of that comes from the battle earlier, and some of his smell is mixed with blood and that better-not-question-it Darktown seepage, but Hawke has waited _too damn long_ to insist on perfection. She touches his face and starts pulling him in before a hand rests on her chest (on a breast actually, she thinks triumphantly). This time the noise that comes out of her mouth is one of frustration. “I swear to _all_ the Old Gods within hearing distance if you tell me I’m all patched up and ready to go home--”

“Sacrilege,” he teases, hands reaching up to touch hers. 

His skin is warm, still tingling with magic and all Hawke can think is how badly she wants those hands under her clothes and much further south. She wets her lips and says, “If you make me beg I’ll never forgive you.”

“I won’t make you beg. I’m not Isabela.” Hawke chokes a bit and Anders gives her a blank look for a second before groaning. “You _didn’t_.”  

“When you’ve had the dry spell I have, then you can judge.” 

“Oh, so I have no idea what it’s like to live a sexless existence, is that it?”

“Anders,” she grumbles, pressing her thighs together and rocking a bit to relieve the pressure, “you are _killing_ me here.”

“I just want to make sure this is what you want. The last thing I want to do is take advantage -- _mmph_.”

She draws the kiss out long and hard, feeling a jolt of satisfaction when she worries his bottom lip and gets a surprised moan for her efforts. His hand goes back to her chest but he’s groping instead of pushing her away. _Like teenagers behind a barn_ , she thinks again and laughs. “It won’t be unfair if we both take advantage,” she says when they finally break away, breathing hard.

“Pretty sure it would be.” But instead of pulling back, Anders clambers into bed and presses Hawke against the wall.

She holds him close and whispers against his ear, “Wouldn’t mind being used by you right about now.” 

He whispers back, “I think I can do that. But I’m afraid you’ve run out of things for me to heal.”

Hawke flashes him a grin. “Did I tell you I enjoy a little bit of pain?”

\--- 

Her skin is salty and still slicked with sweat as he laves his tongue across her neck, easing Hawke onto her back. He doesn’t hurt her, not really, and not like he _thinks_ she’s asking for because for the love of all that's holy they should at least get _dinner_ before touching those bedroom games with a ten foot pole. But when he pulls a bit of skin between his lips and sucks hard enough to bruise, she gasps and squirms up with a breathless laugh. The laugh becomes a moan when he replaces his mouth with a healing touch. He may as well pulling energy straight from his groin for all it does to his already straining erection. 

“ _Maker_ you can do that to me all night,” she tells him, fingers tugging at his ponytail until his hair comes loose.

“Until my mana runs out again,” he tells her, mouth trailing to the other side of her neck and leaving another rough love bite.

“Tease,” she grunts, tugging at his hair none too gently when his healing light flares for a second time. “More?”

It takes a few minutes but clothes finally hit the floor. (Well, most clothes. Neither exactly have the patience or focus to fully disrobe.) His head dips to consider her chest for a moment and he says, “You know, I had a partner once who really liked this. I wonder if women do too?”

“Really liked oh my _fucking fuck_!”

He slides his lips around her nipple and sucks hard, just barely pressing teeth against the swelling nub. Hawke’s hips jerk up and she lets out just the _sweetest_ sound he can imagine, heavy with want and about to come apart and _he_ can push her to silence with a healing spell that steals her breath away. “Hold still. I’ve got an idea.”  

“Just occurred to me,” she pants, and does Hawke _ever_ stop talking? “Am I, am I your first woman? Am I your guinea nug as you ex _ooooh_ little harder, ex, experiment with your sexuality?”

Anders pauses in the middle of leaving a trail of hickeys across her ribs and glances up. “You’re bringing up who’s using who for sexual exploration, are you now?”

“Fair point. Question rescinded.”

“There’s a good girl.”

He gets a sharp hair tug for his trouble and returns to biting and sucking. He doesn’t purposefully ever break her skin, and the idea that he _could_ \-- even more, the idea that she would _like_ it and like the ministrations that would inevitably follow -- is equal parts terrifying and confusing and arousing. But then again, _Hawke_ is equal parts terrifying and confusing and arousing, so he supposes it all works out in the end. He eventually sits back and admires his work, fingers playing across newly-bruised flesh and making Hawke groan as he presses into each mark. _I’ve marked you_ , he marvels to himself, and this feels inexplicably right.

“I rather think I should ask you to say please,” he says, and the next mark he presses into gets a bit of nail. 

“Yoooou are a rat bastard and I hate you.” She arches up into his touch but he pulls his hands away, thoroughly enjoying himself. She huffs in frustration and says, “You said you wouldn’t make me beg!”

“Saying please is begging?” He drums lightly against an unbruised space on her hip. The part of his mind that is Justice (well, more Justice-y than the rest of him) disapproves wholeheartedly at him _wounding_ Hawke and then refusing to heal her; if she notices the twitch of his hand and slight frown as he argues with himself, she’s good enough not to say so. Or distracted enough not to notice. Or horny enough not to mind.

_She needs me_ , he finally thinks, and to his surprise the spirit quiets and backs down. He’s fairly certain there’ll be Void to pay in the morning, but he’s far beyond the capacity to care.

Hawke takes a deep breath, belly rising and falling beneath his touch. “If you tell Isabela, I am tying you up stark naked and leaving you in the Blooming Rose with a sign attached to your neck that says ‘free to a good home.’”

He grins. “I promise not to tell anyone you succumbed to my charms.”

“Maker, I _swear_ I am going to kill you.” Another breath and her voice softens. “Please. Please, Anders.”  

Five love bites on either side of her body, spaced close enough that he can spread his fingers and touch each at the same time. Sometimes -- not always, but sometimes -- he is an _extraordinarily_ clever man.

“Well. Since you asked so nicely _._ ”

\---

Every nerve ending in her body lights up and she doesn’t have the ability to stay still or quiet even if she wanted to. A tiny part of her thinks this is impossible, this is _ridiculously_ impossible, she’s still wearing _pants_ and he’s not even touching her breasts or her clit and _how_ is this so immensely pleasurable? The warmth and light floods through her body, strong and cruel and _sure_ as it laps at her skin and pushes aside even the remotest sense of weakness or doubt. It also occurs to her in the back of her mind (which is apparently incapable of silencing itself, even as her muscles tense in pleasure and her body rocks up against his and she moans things against his loose hair like _yes, Maker yes_ and _more please I’ll do anything just_ ) that if this is what it takes to get off, then she is probably ruined forever when it comes to other lovers.

She’ll dissect that thought later, though. Right now she has an orgasm to coax out. Not that it seems to need much help; she feels the slow build of warmth in the pit of her stomach, the heightened sensitivity that makes even the lightest touch scorch across her skin. Her clit throbs and demands attention but she’s _pretty_ sure, fairly sure, almost completely sure that even if she doesn’t do anything, that if Anders just keeps this up, if he keeps connecting her to this utterly _glorious_ surge of energy…

“Maker’s breath,” Anders whispers against her jaw, “are you about to come? _Already_?”

“Not,” she says through gritted teeth, head thrown back, “if you fucking _distract_ me, I’m not.”

Fuck, fuck, this is so many levels of… _fuck_ yes, those are teeth against her jaw and lips and chin, that’s the coppery taste she knows so well, that’s another burst of magic and light, that’s Anders murmuring for directions, that’s her hand grabbing his stupid girly hair and slamming him down for another kiss. She rocks up against him and _that_ is her begging against his lips and she doesn’t even care. Those are his fingers holding down her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and where the fuck does a mage even get that kind of strength and where does she get off being held down and told to say please and what the fuck even happened to her _life_.  

She hooks a leg around his and angles her hips up and _there_ , through a layer of clothes she’s seriously starting to regret at this point, she can grind her clit right against his erection. Dimly she’s aware of how he curses and his hips stutter in turn. Both legs around his middle now, both arms too, clinging to him and burying her face in his hair. A throb deep in her cunt, muscles clenching around something that’s not there as she digs fingers into Anders’ arms and lets out the loudest noise she has ever made in bed.

“Don’t think all of Darktown heard you,” he grunts, and she’d probably break his nose if she weren’t so _close_.

“ _Please_ ,” she all but sobs and when he pushes the very last of his magic into her, she is lost.


End file.
